


until it no longer hurts

by extemporaneous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Cabin Fic, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, F/F, F/M, Fallen Cas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet Disaster, Oblivious Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29689476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extemporaneous/pseuds/extemporaneous
Summary: UPDATES EVERY WEDNESDAY.*(*work schedule permitting)Dean's tired. So he leaves, and settles down in a small cabin outside a rural town in South Dakota. He's been living off the hills, making it on his own. That is, except for a quiet presence in the trees- a winged creature that he has yet to actually see.Every morning Dean goes to the ridge outside his cabin to find the great black wings in the trees.Until one day, the wings find him.
Relationships: Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Pamela Barnes/Missouri Moseley, Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore (past)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklynstevies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynstevies/gifts).



> IF you have seen this exact concept before it's because this is a reworked version of a VERY old fic. However, I have been found soft, so it's time for wing!fic deancas. More tags and warnings will be added as necessary. This fic will eventually change ratings from M to E, so I guess anticpate that. 
> 
> This is meant to be more of a casual fic, but of course who am I if I don't make things ANGSTY as hell so expect like. Attention to Dean's trauma and general heaven fuckery. 
> 
> Anyways, here's wonderwall.

John stood at the door, angry, his figure so much bigger than the frame even as it fit inside it like any other human, and Dean hated him. Nothing was ever easy. Nothing was ever simple. 

Dean mirrored him from across the room, his eyebrows knit, mouth a thin line, as he concentrated on not letting it quiver. John would not see him cry. Sam was saying something, a pleading tone to his voice, but Dean could barely hear him, his ears ringing. He thought the sound of his own anger could shatter the windows, if he’d only let it out. 

A hand yanked his shoulder back, and he let the tug pull him back a step. Fingers dug into the meat of his arm, and he finally tore his gaze away from John’s. 

“Dean,” Sam said. “It’s not worth it.”

Dean thought maybe he nodded back. “Yeah...yeah. I’m gonna go.”

The minutes of Dean shoving his things into his duffle, the ugly camo one John had bought him to simulate the fucked up boot camp John ran in his mind. Dean barely owned enough clothes to fill the damn thing. Silently, he hulked over to the kitchen, grabbing a lunch bag and stowing some of the groceries he'd bought that week. Sam was preoccupied with school, and John was usually too delusional to keep any of them fed. 

_Serves him fuckin' right_ , Dean bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the eyes burning holes through the back of his shirt. _Let 'im starve_. 

Sam stood in the middle of the kitchen, his body too big for him. Dean wondered when Sammy would be grown in his eyes. His kid brother. Dean skirted around him carefully before the silence was too much to bear, and he broke it as he shouldered his bag, words tumbling out of his mouth all out of order. 

He couldn’t remember what he said, only that it probably didn’t broach the realm of comforting or apologetic.

“Where’re you gonna go?” John shouted, glowering from the living room, the yellow light spilling out into the blue that bathed the cracked driveway. The sun had set. 

Dean didn’t answer. His hands shook as he unlocked the driver’s door and within a ragged breath he was peeling out of the suburban nightmare. His phone rang, and he let it ring until it went to voicemail. And then it rang again, just intrusive enough over the sound of Baby’s engine. 

He glanced at it. 

Sam. 

He shook his head to the side, letting the muffled sob roll off of him, and then held his thumb over the power button.

Silence ate the rest of the night as he drove, chewing him along with it.

Tomorrow was a new day. 

It had to be. 

**▵▿▵**

The weekend passed. His phone sat in the glove box, untouched. Bobby had let him crash on his couch the first two nights, hadn’t questioned why John Winchester’s boy had shown up on his doorstep at two in the morning, eyes bloodshot and bleary. 

For that, Dean was thankful. Because if he talked. Oh, if he talked, he was afraid of what he was going to say. 

Bobby loaned him a cooler, packed it with food, and packed a second duffle bag with a blanket, pillow, and a decrepit laptop that looked more like a crashed plane’s black box than something functional and helped him load it into Baby’s trunk. 

“Hey, Kid.”

Dean still hadn’t really slept, but he didn’t feel tired. He felt restless.

“Hey.”

“When you get there… shoot me a call, okay?” 

“Will do, Bobby.”

He knew he could stay in Sioux Falls. He’d always been allowed to. Bobby kept a spare room just for him. But this wasn’t how he was supposed to live.

“And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Just...take care of yourself.”

“I will.” Dean’s eyes watered. He looked away, out at the scrap yard, filled to the brim with cars that he could stay and fix. It would be easy to fall back into a pattern of a life he knew. He looked to Bobby, standing outside his home, his beard getting greyer, his hair just an inch too long in the back unmaintained in the way someone who was comfortable with their life kept things, and Dean’s heart clenched in his chest. He _could_ stay, but he shouldn’t. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Bobby sighed, a small smile hidden in the shadow of the only willow tree on the property. 

“I know. But I’d like to anyways.”

**▵▿▵**

Christ, he’d made a mess of things. Sam was probably worried. He should reach out, let him know that he was okay, that he was fine and away from it all.

_This counts as running away,_ Dean thought. 

Sammy might be worried, but he’d survice another few days of silence because Dean wasn’t okay. Not quite, not yet. 

The Black Hills slowly crawled their way into the scenery, flat plains growing into rolling hills, all covered with the first breath of spring, the yellow grass consumed by new growth. The air was sweet. The impala tore along the highway, and she handled the banks perfectly.

Eventually, a smile broke across Dean’s face as the April sun beat down. Bobby had given him the address to an old hunting cabin and handed him a marked paper map, muttering something about how the service was terrible in the hills. He’d shared the place with Rufus before they’d retired and settled in Sioux Falls. He didn’t promise perfect condition, but maybe that was what Dean needed. A small place, far away from everything and everyone. If it was falling apart, that was fine. It would become something he could fix with his own two hands instead of the other way around. Something he could call his own. 

Through a meandered road he eventually found himself somewhere he’d never been. Unfamiliarity washed over him, and he knew he was getting close to where he was supposed to be. Nowhere. He was in a place they finally couldn’t reach. 

The Impala rolled over the thick layer of pine needles that overtook the backwoods dirt road. He'd been following it the last mile and a half. Bobby hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the cabin was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Eventually the road came to a stop, or at least there was nowhere else it could lead, as a tree grew straight in the middle of it. 

The engine shuddered off, the metal of the hood ticking as all the metal parts underneath it cooled. The pine forest canopied them both in shade. He sat for a moment, listening to the woods. The tree blocking the way was massive, the trunk nearly two feet wide. As he got out of the car, he had to crane his neck to see the top. It towered several feet over its neighbors.

Dean was beginning to wonder if he'd gotten the directions right, as he scanned the trees when his eyes finally settled on it.It would be exactly his luck if he’d ended up miles away on a dead end road. He sat there, and huffed through his nostrils, hand finicking with the handle of the glove box. He could call Bobby, just to make sure. 

Then his eyes finally caught it: there perfectly camouflaged amongst the red-brow trunks of the pines sat a cabin, about thirty yards past the end of the road. He withdrew his hand back to his side, and grinned, tap-tap-tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in victory. 

There it was. 

Home.

  
  


Leaving everything but his coat in the car, he went to investigate. 

The structure was simple, a square build with a standard roof, which at a glance looked to be in good condition. He walked the perimeter, looking for any damage that would render the cabin uninhabitable. Luckily, the external walls had been built by someone who'd known what they were doing. The logs were treated with something that prevented rot, even after an neglected existence over the past few years. 

With everything outside seemingly in working order, Dean tried the key in the door. No dice. He jiggled the handle, but it looked almost entirely rusted out. He debated for a moment, and the trotted back to the impala, tearing through her trunk for the shotgun Bobby had loaned him (on account of the bears). 

“First thing on the to do list: install new door handles.” Dean mused quietly, to no one but the trees. 

Bracing for the shock to his shoulder, Dean closed his eyes and slammed the but of the shotgun onto the door handle. Clearly, he applied too much force, because the handle gave under the blow immediately, and he toppled forward, banging his forehead against the door. He grappled for purchase and righted himself, cheeks flushing red from embarrassment. 

The woods remained silent. 

“Okay, Bobby…” Dean pressed his fingertips against the door and pushed. The door was made of one solid cut of wood, and he noted that it required effort to open. “Let’s see what you did with the place.” 

Light filtered in from the two windows on the West side of the room, and more light lit up the dust particles gently floating down from the exposed rafters. The cabin was simple: the doorway led immediately into an open floor plan that counted as the dining room and living room. The dining part led directly into the kitchen. Next to that was a short hall that Dean assumed led to the bathroom and bedroom. 

It smelled like pine oil, dust, and wood smoke. Dean coughed, and ducked under a nearly invisible cobweb that stretched from the door frame to the small antique lamp. He flipped the lightswitch and waited for the lights to turn on. The power was cut off. 

“Damn,” Dean sighed. Bobby probably forgot to contact the town municipalities and announce that someone was living here again. 

He pulled the curtains open, one of the sun-bleached panels catching on the pole where it was torn. Once the main room was adequately lit, he took it all in. The place was tidy. They’d clearly tidied it up anticipating a long while before they returned. Above the mantle of the fireplace sat a framed picture. Dean picked it up, rubbing the edge of his palm against it. Rufus and Bobby smiled up at him, looking the perfect picture of retired and at peace by a lakeside, fishing poles in hand. 

There were small items tucked throughout denoting that people had lived there once. Dean ran his fingers over a soft quilt folded neatly on the cushion of the sofa. It was leather and looked like they’d found it at a thrift store, the leather soft but starting to crack along the edges. 

The kitchen had appliances from the last decade, which Dean realized he should be grateful for because it wasn’t like he had the budget to renovate the place. He turned a 360 and went still when he saw the pictures on the fridge. Only three: one of Rufus holding a small dog he didn’t recognize and looking exactly as curmudgeon as Dean knew him, Dean and Sammy from a decade back drinking from the hose back in Sioux Falls, and one of Dean from a few months back, hunched over a pie as he blew out a candle. His birthday. Dean hadn’t realized they’d taken a picture. 

_Huh_ , Dean’s brain choked at the thought. He hadn’t known what he expected. He didn’t think he was that big enough a part of their lives so as to warrant not one but _two_ pictures on their hunting cabin’s fridge. 

  
  


The hall led to a bathroom behind the kitchen, which was bigger than he expected, and well lit thanks to a window by the sink. It was as clean as the other rooms. 

Cobwebs tangled themselves across the bedroom. The room was plain, just a log bed along the far wall, two side tables on either side, a closet and a narrow stealth ladder that led up to what must be the rafters of the other room. The mattress looked unforgiving, but looks could be deceiving. He collapsed onto it, regretting the decision immediately as a poof of dust wheezed out of the fitted sheet. 

Maybe he was just road-tired, but the mattress beckoned him to get some rest. He yawned, pressing the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth. Dust landed on his tongue and he smacked his mouth in disgust. 

Deciding he could crash for the night, and start the overhaul tomorrow. He made one trip to his car for some ingredients to make a sandwich, and shoved his knife and flashlight into his duffel. It made him nervous to leave Baby so far away and unsupervised in the night but Dean supposed it wasn’t like any kid could walk by and key her. 

Besides, he couldn’t get her any closer without the potential for more damage. No, she’d be better off there. 

The sun was beginning to set, and after making his dinner, he settled into the couch cushions with a content sigh and watched it crawl down along the blue sky. The cabin looked out on a meadow, with the forest continuing on the other side and rising into a granite hill. He watched as a golden eagle disappeared into the branches of a pine in the distance. The sun disappeared, and the crickets quieted again. Night yawned over the valley, soft, and blanketed everything in blue light. 

The tightness in his chest slid out of his mouth as a small white puff. April temps were still cold, especially at night, especially this far North. A shiver ran down his back, his dark blue henley suddenly nowhere near enough layers to keep warm.

Deciding it would be better to not burn down the cabin trying to light a fire to keep the place warm and lit, he opted for hitting the sack early. He checked the cabin, an old habit he’d picked up after it all happened, and he was settling under the quilt and the other blanket Bobby had packed, when he sighed and sat up again. He padded back to the door, which could still be opened by anyone now and after a moment’s consideration, dragged the couch in front of it. 

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow he’d fix the lock. 

  
  


**▵▿▵**

The nearest town was about ten miles to the East. The sign said Pop. 136. Dean had grown up in small towns, hopping from state to state, wherever John had deemed fit to drag them, but even for him, this barely qualified as a town. 

There was one main road, the highway, and along it sat a general store that doubled as a hardware store. The building looked like it had been built sometime in the 1800s and never updated again. Dean parked Baby in a dirt paved spot to the side, where he assumed he was meant to. The door dinged over his head as he walked in. Behind the counter was a burly man who didn’t look up from whatever he was fiddling with, but did wave a hand towards the door in greeting. 

There was a small section towards the back and Dean found some deadbolt parts that looked like they were still in their packaging from the 90s. It would have to do. 

At the counter, the man offered to make a nicer deadbolt for him. Dean thought it was odd, and his expression must have relayed this because the man tilted his head towards him, like he was about to say something secret. 

“It’s safer if you do.” His cajun accent was thick, and out of place. 

Dean thought about asking him to elaborate, but instead he nodded. “Thanks…” 

“Benny.”

“Dean. Thanks, Benny. What do I owe you?”

“Ten for this one. You can pay me back for the other one when it’s done. Should be ready by Friday.”

Dean fished the money out of his wallet, and made a mental note

to swing back around by the end of the week.

“Are you staying in that old cabin?”

“Yeah, just got here, actually.” 

“Take it the key didn’t work?”

“Something like that.” 

Benny gave him a look that bordered on suspicious and Dean 

gawked. 

“Not like that. I’m a friend of Bobby’s.”

Benny simply nodded, and embarrassed, Dean retreated back to the 

solitude of the cabin. 

**▵▿▵**

When he woke, the power was on and there was running water. He took a brutally cold shower, until his skin was red and made a mental note to fix the water heater. Come winter, if he was still here, hot water was essential. Winter was so far in the horizon that Dean could barely imagine it, couldn't focus on the loneliness, and the bitter cold that it brought.

No. 

He had months to prepare himself.

So he did. 

Dean set about cleaning it up, starting with repairing the damaged windows which had expanded and shrunk over the seasons until they couldn’t open anymore. After a week, his bank account began to dwindle. He’d have to figure out some way to make money, if only enough to keep the fridge stocked and the roof from leaking. 

Back when Sammy was a junior in high school, he’d gone through a particularly intense rebellious phase, which Dean promised to not tell Dad about only so long as Sam taught him what he was doing. And so, Dean figured out his father’s bank account and took a few thousand. John wouldn’t notice, Dean assured himself. And if he did, that was too damn bad. John hadn’t bothered to invest himself in Dean since freshman year. He wouldn’t know the first place to look for him. 

With the spare money, he bought a hunting rifle. Dean didn’t want a job, or at least a full time one, so he hunted his own game and occasionally went to town to sell any excess to the two local restaurants who were surprisingly grateful. 

  
  


**▵▿▵**

A month passed, quietly before he had his first sighting.

The cabin was settled at the cusp of the forest, where it faded into a small meadow, a creek trickling through it with no haste at all. Beyond the wild grass and flowers the forest began again, climbing up the ridge which gradually built itself into the Black Hills. 

It was a misty morning— the april showers had indeed come, though they happened mostly in the early hours, before the sun rose and broke through the cloud banks. The world was hushed in those moments, the occasional crow fluttering its wings above him, as he tread carefully through the trees. Dean had managed to track a lone deer from his side of the meadow over the ridge before it had lost its footing in the mud and slid down a thin ravine out of sight of his gun. From the sound of it, it had regained its footing and begun to make its way out. He clambered over the boulders, racing to meet it on the other side of the entrance. 

A crash reverberated through the rocks, the crackled sound of a branch snapping from above him. The sudden sound of wings taking flight caught him off guard. A gust of air pushed down to him from somewhere in the sky, and his short hair fluttered in the breeze, the droplets that clung to the needles smattering across his cheeks. 

“Woah.” Dean’s nose crinkled, unsettled.He craned his neck to catch a glimpse but an empty blue sky greeted him.

The bird must have been truly massive.

As far as he knew, there was no species large enough to be the culprit. To his left, the deer scrabbled over the rough erosion of the ravine opening, and it took off into the trees, disappearing from his line of sight within seconds. 

He swore under his breath, but stayed put. Crouching down with baited breath, he waited a few minutes, until his knees protested, ears straining to hear the wings but there was no sign that it had hung around. He shouldered his rifle and trotted back to the cabin. 

It was probably just his paranoia talking, but when he got back he made sure all the bolts and locks on the windows and door were shut tight. He spent the rest of the day avoiding the windows, curled around a Vonnegut book on the couch. 

**▵▿▵**

  
  


The next day he ventured back into Pringle to inquire. Harvelle’s was his favorite diner by day, bar by night, and he went to talk to one of the Harvelle’s herself. Being a research type person, she seemed to know a little about a lot of things. That and she kept up with his banter and shitty horror movie references. Quintessential friendship requirements met, he kept coming back— well that and the coffee was pretty good. 

Each with a cup of joe in hand and an appetite for answers, they sat down and talked. Later that night he left with her number (finally) and even more questions than before. 

Jo said that nothing in South Dakota could make that noise, or get big enough to do so. 

He should be unnerved, but the more Dean thought about it the more the restlessness took root in the back of his mind, like a itch begging to be scratched. 

He’d encountered it around dawn, and so every day, an hour before the sun rose he went out and sat on the ridge. It overlooked the meadow. As the week went by, he could see the grass grow longer, greener, until it was up to his waist when he wandered through it. 

The fog at day break began to dwindle as everything warmed up, the wild sunflowers reaching up to the sun.

He kept his eyes on the tree line. If it was a bird it would probably be perched in one of those, no matter how big. If nothing seemed to show, he’d spend an extra hour after sunrise with his eyes towards the sky and the slowly disappearing stars and moon, feeling relaxed and at peace.

And on some of the best mornings, he did see it. Giant black and grey wings would curve up into the air, arching and stretching against the backdrop of periwinkle blue sky. Usually that was when everything out in the valley was a hazy silhouette or the silhouette’s shadow. 

The first time, his heart skipped a beat and then the next, his inhale caught at the base of his throat. 

What could be so big? 

What could be so beautiful? 

Despite its size, its movements were graceful and practiced.

Sometimes they even seemed methodical.

Like it wanted to be seen.

**▵▿▵**

Dean would put money on the fact that it knew he was there. That it knew he sat and waited, gazing listlessly for nothing but a glance at the wings. 

For some reason it seemed wrong to go out and actually look for it or its nest. Here and there, he’d contemplate the idea but within seconds, there was guilt, like its mystery was something sacred. And he never told anyone in Pringle about his sightings. The only one who knew was Jo and he’d made her promise to keep it a secret. 

She pouted at him, arms crossed, shaking a leg with all the petulance of a child told she couldn’t have something. 

“Not a word.” Dean pointed at her with his butter knife. “Promise.”

She rolled her eyes, turning back to greet the patron walking through the door. “Fine. But you owe me.”

“That’s fine with me.” Dean relaxed into the stool, relieved that she agreed. 

Even if he didn’t hunt it, others might and that was not a risk he was willing to take. Cold dread shot up through his spine at the thought. 

He and Wing’s silent coexistence over the months became one of the things he woke up in the morning for. Which was why when Jo called him saying that someone had found an enormous dappled feather and that he should come take a look, Dean went sixty when he should have gone thirty to get there. 

Pamela Barnes was a local sculptor. He had only seen her in passing before, too awkward and without reason to say hi. She sat in his stool, one hand dramatically swept across the counter, as she twisted the quill of the feather between her fingers watching it intently. 

Jo quickly informed him that Pamela had gone out for a hike near his property and while near the ravine searching for materials for her latest project, saw the feather caught in a pine. Everyone knew that Jo and her mother were a reliable resource on the going ons and duly Pamela went to her, feather in hand.

She didn’t seem to notice him walk in. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me... Pamela, is it?”

She sized him up, and then a small smirk tugged her mouth up, clearly satisfied with what she saw. “Pamela Barnes. _Pleased_ to meet you.”

“Dean.” He coughed, shifting forward on his feet awkwardly and shuffling over to shake her hand. “Dean Winchester.” Her grip was painful, and he glanced at Jo for help. 

“I’m sorry, Pam, I called him.” Jo smiled, her eyes crinkling a little.

Dean gave her a nod as Pamela held up the object of conversation. “Jo was telling me you’re the one living in Rufus ‘n Bobby’s old place. I found this pretty thing while I was out there. Figured Jo would know something about it, the brainiac.”

Dean lost her there, gaping at the feather. It was as long as her arm, and in almost perfect condition but for a little split and fray in the arched side of the fletching. “You...you found it out on that ridge?” 

Pam nodded, eyeing Dean. “Yeah, out there, not too far from your cabin.”

Putting his hand to his mouth in thought, he blinked. “It’s fuckin' huge. Do you mind-- ? ”

"Not at all." Gingerly, she passed it off to him. “Jo says she has no idea what it could be from.”

Jo gave a soft cackle as she cleared a table of old tea mugs. “It could be a Pterodactyl for all I know.” 

_It’s worth a try,_ Dean thought. “Do you mind if I keep this? I might be able to find more.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Sure. I got no use for it, to be honest. This project is all bones and rope. Besides, it was on your property.”

“Thanks.” He smiled, truly grateful. She got up out of the stool, popping her neck to the side.

“Oh,” He stumbled over his next words. “would you mind keeping quiet about it? I don’t want people clambering all over my property in search of more feathers, if you know what I mean.”

Agreeing with his slightly untruthful logic, she bid farewell to Jo and went home. 

Jo gave him a look the second the door closed behind her, hand on her hip. “So... you weren’t making it up.”

“Of course not.” Dean was hurt. “Why would I do that?”

“Yeah, well, you never know.” She shrugged. “That was a good call. Asking her to keep quiet. I have a feeling you're not worried about the fallen feathers, but the ones still attached, am I right?”

Dean didn’t say anything, but he knew she didn’t need a response to know the truth. 

“Later, Dean.” She smiled warmly, pulling her blonde hair back into a ponytail to finish cleaning up before the lunch rush.” 

**▵▿▵**

He got home shortly after, drifting off the main road and onto the dirt one, parking the impala in the same place he always did. In front of the Sprite tree (that’s what Bobby had always called them). 

The entire ride back he’d given the feather glances, which he had set on the passenger seat. Dean couldn’t help admire the beauty of it, how the grey at the end grew darker into a molted black. 

He closed the car door gingerly, afraid that any sudden movements would damage the feather. He walked up to his front porch, and in the process of unlocking the door he looked at the dirt caked floor mat and his breath hitched. 

There was another, left like a welcoming present for when he got home. He quickly opened the door and then scanned the trees outside for the bird, to no avail. After a minute he resigned himself to another sighting-less day, natural light fading as the sun set. 

In hopes of a last fleeting chance, he flicked on the porch light and his eyes strained as he gave the towering pine trees one last going over. Sulking and butthurt over nothing, he trudged back into the cabin. 

It wasn’t until he was settled into the bed, the weight of the blankets lulling him to sleep that the realization broke over his head. 

The placement of the feather was far too deliberate. 

_Holy shit._

The creature- Dean was positive it wasn’t a bird- _put_ it there.

That meant it definitely knew about him. 

Which meant it had a thought process. 

Dean was dealing with a giant, intelligent creature with wings. 

_And, oh yeah, no one can know about this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has one shitty day and one day that changes everything. 
> 
> Oh, what cosmic bad karma has he warranted to have someone bleed out in his arms more than once?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CAS CASCASCASCSCSACASCSASASACA-
> 
> (PSA: The graphic violence/gore warning comes into play in the last third of the chapter, so please proceed with caution.)

The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered. 

“Mmm...great.” Another item on his to-do list. 

Dean was willing to bet there were more leaks in the living room. 

For a moment he debated allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep. It was all too easy to slip back to that dream again: blurry hands, soft mouths, quiet murmurs, everything he missed and everything he’d never had. Not really. 

Rain gently pattered against the outside of the cabin, the storm grinding in from the East and then settling its haunches right over the hills to stay for the night. The sun was rising, and the pink sky cast shadows from the drops on the window pane, little spots phantom dripping down his sheets. 

It was the first morning since he’d gotten to the cabin that he’d slept in past sunrise. Sluggishly, he sat up, diggin the heel of his hand into his eyes as a yawn fought its way out of his chest. He turned his head, and reached out with a hand to wake his companion, before reality caught up with him and his hand fell to the mattress, going through the ghost.

_ That’s right _ , he thought. His mouth tasted like ash.

If he laid there any longer his chest would become heavy, and his breaths ragged, so he tossed the covers off, and trudged over to the shower. The cold water bit through the fog better than anything else could, and he leaned his temple against the glass door waiting for it to heat up and fill the room with steam. 

Normally, he’d air dry, but it was chilly and an urgency hung around him. He grabbed the bleach-spotted towel hanging sadly by the door towelled off quickly. 

He wandered idly, picking his daily morning tasks up and dropping them before he’d complete them. Something pulled him around the house. He was forgetting something.

Dean was midway through folding the quilt and draping it on the sofa arm when they caught his eye. 

Two large feathers sat in the middle of the massive dining table (he still wondered who had built and what they’d been thinking— the thing could seat the knights of the round table if necessary). Tugging the fridge door with one hand he reached blindly for the pot of coffee he kept iced, and nudged it closed with his knee, never taking his eyes off them. 

They were captivating. He continued to stare as he poured himself a cup, spilling some of the coffee onto the counter. He’d forget to clean it up, and it would stain, but that was okay. If they asked, he was experimenting with wood staining.

Dean could examine them once he made himself some kind of breakfast. Those were the rules: remember to feed yourself, and then you can do whatever you want to with your day. Breakfast ended up being toast and jam, and he plopped it down at the end seat of the table, and reached for the feathers before he took a bite. 

The color on the first one was so dark it looked heavy, but it was as light in his hand as any feather should be. He held it up and squinted, twisting his wrist back and forth. It caught the light and reflected a shimmering oil slick back at him. The colors shifted, hues iridescent.

At first glance it could be a raven’s, but it was at least four times bigger than that.

The second one was more muted, the black towards the base of it dappled into a brown and white, and it was downy soft where the other was sharp and precise. Yesterday he’d thought it was grey but better light proved that it was a grey-brown.

He’d assumed that it was from the same bird—  _ creature _ , but now he wasn’t so sure. Dean didn’t know the first thing about birds. However, he knew several people who did. 

**▵▿▵**

  
  


“Hey, Bobby. Can I talk to Rufus?”

“He’s kinda in the middle of some’in’, Dean.” The roll of his eyes was audible, as someone yelped in the muffled background. “Can I call you back?”

“Please?” Dean asked, grinning cheekily even though he wasn’t there to warm Bobby over in person. 

Bobby made a disgruntled noise and paused, before sighing. “You’re doing the face aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. You never want to talk to  _ me _ .” 

“You know that’s not true.”

“Hm.” Bobby replied. Out of spite, he kept the phone next to his face as he shouted for his attention. “Rufus! It’s Dean.” 

_ Ouch _ , Dean mouthed wincing at the volume, as he listened to the sound of two old men grumbling at each other before fabric shifted, and Rufus picked up the phone. 

“He lives.”

A smile cracked through Dean’s concentration. “Hey Ruf, gotta question for you.”

“Coulda called us sooner. We were beginning to wonder if you’d sold the cabin and moved somewhere warmer with pink flamingos.”

The image made Dean snort. Him at the beach? Unlikely.

“Nope.” Dean quipped. “Still here and freezing my ass off. You guys ever think about installing a damn heater?”

“And pay that bill? Hell no. We added a fireplace, what more do you want from us.”

_ Good ol’ crabby Rufus. _ “What do you know about birds?” 

“A lot.” As per usual, he was being obtuse.

“Know of any big enough to leave behind two foot feathers?”

Rufus whistled. “Not in North America, unless you’ve got ostriches running around.”

“That’d be a negatory. So there’s nothing you can think of?”

“Nope. Did you find something, kid?”

“Holding one right now.”

“No shit.” He could hear the bewildered tone of his voice over the shitty connection. “Well, I guess keep an eye out. It’d be real hard for something that big to hide, and even harder for it to sit comfortable in those pine trees with the branches so dense. I’d say you’re about to make the biggest zoological discovery in North America in the past century. Keep us posted?” 

“Will do.” Dean said, and he heard Rufus handing the phone back over to Bobby. 

“Hope everything’s okay up there, Dean.”

“Everything’s peachy, honestly. Anyways—” He checked the clock on the stove. 8:30. The hardware store would be open in a half hour. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to whatever it is a couple of old farts do in retirement.”

“Hey—” 

Dean grinned to himself. “See ya, Bobby.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

The line went silent, and Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, bobbing his head to the side in thought. Though he didn’t get a definitive answer, at least the call had eliminated the options of native fauna. 

**▵▿▵**

At nine in the morning, Dean was usually one of a small line of people waiting outside Lafitte’s Goods to needle Benny’s brain for fixes and tools of the trade. Pamela was waiting against the brick wall, hand shielding the summer morning sun from her eyes, reading a 99 cent paper back with interest. 

“Hey, Pamela.”

“Dean-o. Call me Pammy.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. But Pam works. I’m not your mother.”

“You call your mom by her first name?”

“Fair point. What’re you here for?” She nodded her head and bounced off the wall, as Benny unlocked the doors. A couple of grizzled old men shuffled in ahead of them, beelining it for the plywood. 

Porch season. 

“Roof’s got a leak.”

“Leak season.”

“Apparently. This is the third one since I got here.”

She squinted at him, like he was omitting something important, and popped the bubble of gum in her mouth. Dean started to itch under her scrutiny. He hated being studied like a lab rat.

What was the woman? A witch? Why was she peeling back layers of his get-up without warning.

Dean coughed, and used Benny’s presence as an excuse to wiggle out from under her gaze. “Gotta— yeah, see you.” Turning on his heel he fled towards the adhesives, face contorting with embarrassment. 

Holy fuck, somehow he’d gotten even more awkward. 

_ Dear god, help me.  _

Benny never pried unless Dean seemed interested in offering up information, and for that Dean was actually incredibly grateful. Most days he didn’t want to talk about anything, certainly not his past, but Benny and his bushy beard and warm eyes had managed to wiggle through his walls, just a little. 

“Benny.”

Benny stared at him from behind the register, inquisitive expression considerably easier to cope with than Barnes' hungry expression. A friendly smile danced across his face as he assessed Dean’s no-doubt rosey cheeks. 

“She’s got her claws in you, huh.”

Dean ducked his head, glancing sideways at the brunette woman still looking at the different kinds of rope. A tramp stamp peeked out from under the bottom edge of her tank top. Dean tapped his fingers on the pock-marked wood counter and turned his attention back to his friend. “Is she always like that?”

“Sure is,” Benny drawled, ringing up everything Dean had haphazardly shoved onto the counter in his escape. “You just happen to be the newest,  _ prettiest _ , plaything in Pringle.” The burly man winked.

Pink crawled up Dean’s neck from his collarbones and spread into his cheeks once again. Christ, there was no escape from these people. Still stammering, Dean practically ran back to the Impala. 

  
  


**▵▿▵**

The phone vibrated in his back pocket. By the third ring, Dean had parked Baby in her usual spot, and he struggled to tug it out of his pocket, checking the Caller ID. 

California. 

He pumped the window down, the air getting warm inside the car, and he flipped the phone open, inhaling sharply. He should have called before now. Shouldn’t have let so much time pass. In the fall, he’d be too busy to take any of Dean’s calls anyways. 

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Sammy.”

Several seconds of too-long silence passed between them. 

“Where have you been?”

Dean swallowed, thick, guilt permeating the small space. 

“Sorry, I just—” He didn’t have an excuse. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could still have picked up the phone. I tried to call you about six times. You don’t always need to have something to say, y’know… It just would’ve been nice to know you’re still breathing.” His brother’s voice was basically a whisper at the end. 

“I know.” Dean closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing shakily. “I know.”

“I had to hear it from Bobby. Dean—” Sam’s voice pitched up to that octave it always did when he was upset. “Dad’s gone again.”

Fuck. 

“And that’s fine. It’s not like I’m ten and incapable of caring for myself but I thought— I thought he’d be back by now. It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Shit, Sammy.” 

“I think he’s fine. He sent a vague text a couple of days ago, it’s just with school starting in two months I get worried. Not even for him, just for us. I can’t pay for school myself, and I can’t afford to miss anything because of Dad. If my grades drop, I’m out.”

“I know.” God, Dean knew.

Sam was a late bloomer for college. The kid was brilliant, but he’d been dealt a bad hand, and it was a miracle Rufus and Bobby had invested in a saving fund for the two of them decades ago. At twenty-two, Dean knew that he’d already had trouble securing the scholarships. Stanford wanted the best and brightest, not the kid with seven schools on his high school transcript and an overabundance of unexcused absences. 

The guilt piled up and perched itself on his shoulders until he sagged into his seat under the heaviness. It was his job to keep John out of trouble, not Sammy’s. And instead he’d run away from that responsibility. 

The repair materials sat in the backseat, and his heart twisted in his chest. The meadow sat peacefully in the late afternoon sun, just across the short distance of woods, and it still kept its secret. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he’d had his fill of independence.

“Look,” He could kick himself for how his voice cracked. “If John doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, I’ll come back. I’ll help. Promise.”

For what it was worth, a facet of his brother’s relieved sigh sounded apologetic.“Thank you, Dean. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“Okay then.”

“Bye.”

“Talk to you soon, Sammy.” Dean’s jaw clenched involuntarily, as he flipped the phone closed and tossed it against the passenger door. His frustrated shout echoed between him and the trees, but he didn’t feel better.

_ Always this _ .

Historically, John would do something stupid and irresponsible and Dean would drop everythign to clean up the mess and no one would thank him. Not really. That was fine.

Family was supposed to break your heart. 

**▵▿▵**

The leak proved to be an easy fix. 

Dean fought the attic door that led to the roof, following the small staircase up until he was on the balls of his feet, head sticking out as he pulled himself onto it. The shingles were rough, cracked and damaged from the winters, and he scrapped the length of his arm against it.

The source of the leak took only a minute to find. Five or so shingles were missing, leaving nothing but the wood underneath, which did nothing but absorb any and all precipitation. The rubber sealant smelled terrible, and he gagged dramatically, almost dropping the metal can in the process. Done applying, he plopped his ass down, determined to see it dry properly before he went back inside.

Half assing things had always resulted in a stern talking to in the least, and it had been something he’d struggled with growing up, his mind yanking him a thousand directions until his head was spinning and John was disappointed. 

Dean grit his teeth, purposefully dragging the raw scrape against the rough roofing, the burn biting through the thought, bringing him back down from that far off place he so frequently wandered to. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he found himself lost, shrunk down, smaller than the hand-me-down leather jacket he tried to fill.

  
  


From the roof he could see almost everything. It turned out that Rufus and Bobby’s cabin foundation was built onto a gentle slope.

The rain clouds had dissipated, migrating to the flat plains further south, and it left a crisp atmosphere behind. The sun poked through the remaining gargantuan cumulonimbus clouds, sunbeams gently caressing the grass. Grey mist rose from where the creek beds greedily absorbed the heat. It reminded him of the paintings of cowboys, sitting on a stallion, bathed in golden light, their backs to the audience, all the edges illuminated and throwing everything else into stark purple shadows. 

The burn of the scrape subsided as a sense of peace settled Dean, his body melting into the shingles. An hour passed before his stomach growled, and he climbed back down for lunch.

**▵▿▵**

Tapping. 

Tapping at the window pane only inches from his face.

Groggy and only slightly encrusted (gross) Dean opened his eyes and was met by dark blue ones, a tawny human hand pressed up against the glass. 

Dean’s soul evaporated out of his body, back pressed to the headboard as he scrabbled for the small knife he kept under his pillow. Before he could look again, it was gone.He launched himself out of bed, so very entirely grateful that he’d had enough sense to go to sleep in his boxers and his worn-out threadbare Kansas shirt. 

Holy hell. 

Fingers trembling, he opened the window, leaning almost all the way out, hovering a few feet above the ground.A single feather slowly came to rest soundlessly on the pine-needle carpet. The view from the window remained unyieldingly motionless. 

Black-eyed susans had begun to sprout in the shade, despite themselves, and now they quivered where they grew between the pine-roots even though the morning wind had not pierced through the woods yet. 

Craning his neck, he glanced up, half expecting the last thing he’d ever see to be a terrifying bird man staring down at him like he was lunch. Nothing. 

Dean practically fell out of his room, chanting under his breath in a poor attempt to calm himself down as he stumbled down the short hall to the living room. 

_ It’s human. _

“No,” Dean spoke to the picture frames on the walls. He had no idea what he was denying, but the situation begged to be denied. He paced back and forth in the living room, no doubt wearing the floor down despite the fact that he was wearing socks— the ones with the holes in the heel. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

_ Oh my God, it was so very not okay.  _

Suddenly, the couch seemed like the perfect place to suffocate himself to unconsciousness. Someone else could deal with this. 

_ No _ , he thought.  _ You wanted this to happen, you dirty liar. Stop panicking and  _ deal  _ with it.  _

Wings was human- or at least partially human. He looked like a man. Dean’s thin eyelids fluttered closed, and the image was painted on the backside of them with crystal clarity. Square jawline, arrow-straight nose, curiously arched eyebrows… and  _ the eyes _ . They were so blue. And they had been looking right at him. Watching him. 

It was entirely ridiculous that his eyes overshadowed the massive lurking darkness behind him, of what had to have been his wings. 

A human with wings. 

This was crazy. Everything was crazy.

The way he saw it, there were two directions this could go: he could pretend he hadn’t seen anything, and this would be tucked away into the delusion box that he kept under lock and key at the back of his mind and he could grow old being none the wiser of whatever breach of reality this was, or he could go find it. 

The first option was sounding real nice. Normal. Well adjusted. 

He was well adjusted. 

Besides, Dean wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a dream. this entire thing was a fever dream and he was in some hospital bed back in Lawrence, stuck in a coma. Dean pinched himself, viciously and stared at the white marks left on his forearm, helpless. 

Nope. 

“Okay.” He barked out a laugh. 

He should call Jo. 

After a few more minutes of pacing and hyperventilating, he decided against it. He would tell her— of course he would! —but when it came up.

The Harvelle’s were good people and they’d shown him nothing but kindness. 

The situation had to be broached with care, or the small home he’d built in the life he wanted to live would topple in on itself, and the rubble and dust would drown him.

Trust issues were a problem of his he’d been aware of since high school, when he’d had too many secrets to keep and any semblance of a support system was states away. 

God, he knew the way he clammed up was obvious, but sometimes he surprised even himself. If he was being honest, there was a lot more to it than a strong need for privacy. Didn’t matter though. In the end, after all the nit-picking and self beratement, it boiled down to fear. 

Jo could keep her mouth closed, but there was always a chance she’d accidentally tell someone, and there was a high chance it would be the wrong person. If he let it slip that this thing existed, who knew what would come packing. And he knew sooner or later, someone would bring the heat. Words got around easily in a small town like Pringle and he knew everyone would be at his door, wanting a chance to see the freak of the week. 

Which… was a thing that existed. A human with wings, that called the small clearing his home.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He felt protective over the man, almost ferociously so. 

The day’s hunting trip wasn’t happening— now Dean was paranoid.

What if he accidently shot him? Or scared him off permanently? 

His stomach churned, acid and bile climbing their way up his throat. The burn was familiar. Half his childhood had been spent subsiding panic attacks and anxiety, calming down Dad or Sam or both at the same time. 

**▵▿▵**

The tin echo of a gunshot managed to penetrate through the thick log walls of the cabin.In a heartbeat, he was scrambling for the ancient shotgun. The front door swung open, the little voice in his head told him to close it behind him, but his feet carried him quicker than his mind and so he left it swinging on its hinges at his back. 

An anguished scream gargled its way from somewhere deeper into the woods, due south of the cabin. Rocks dashed the soles of Dean’s feat and he swore out loud, having forgotten his boots at the door. 

_ Shit shit shit. _

Someone was nearby, and they were ballsy enough to fire a weapon despite the illegality of hunting on private property. His mind raced at the same speed he ran towards it, a limp skewing his gate every few steps. Stray branches caught the sleeves of his shirt, tearing through the fabric as he refused to slow down. 

_ It’s just a deer.  _

He knew better. 

_ They’re just after a deer, or a bison that wandered away from the heard or an elk or something—  _

Another blood curdling scream erupted from amongst the pine, this one loud enough to rattle the crows out of their nests. They cawed, the sound of dozens of pairs of wings taking flight muting the pained groans. 

He knew better. 

Please— please. Not Wings.

  
  


He faltered over a boulder, panic overtaking muscle memory and skidded to a halt at the crest of a ledge. The scene below knocked the breath out of his chest, leaving a vacuum in its wake. 

Campbell, one of the more elderly hunters of the area was standing over another tawny body. Giant black wings sprawled out, twisting and twitching in the dirt and mud, feathers slightly splayed underneath his back. 

Campbell’s face distorted in pain, a tense moment passing before his wild eyes landed on Dean, the whites of his too visible, even from ten yards away. Blood pumped out from a wound on his neck, and he had a hand clamped down onto it, slick with red, he held a shotgun limply in his left hand, the butt of it dropped heavily to the ground. 

Semi-satisfied that Campbell didn’t seem interested in shooting again, Dean fixated every ounce of attention on Wings and his breath hitched. Smeared across his mouth and chin was a copious amount of blood. He’d bitten Campbell. Dean’s heart swelled with pride.

_ Good _ . 

His short encounter with Campbell prior had proved that the man was a bag of dicks, cocky and far too keen on the killing aspect of hunting. It skeeved Dean out then, and it certainly did now. Campbell was still looking at Wings like he was prey. Though no component of the scene begged to differ: the man was naked, teeth bared, but he was incapable of escaping, the gunshot wound in his abdomen bleeding him dry. 

Dean leveled the end of his shotgun at Campbell’s head. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Campbell backed away from Wings, the muscles in his right arm tensed, like he wanted to put it up defensively, but it was necessary he kept pressure on the wound. It looked like Wings had gone for the jugular. “It attacked me, Winchester.”

“And?” 

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Dean would put money on the fact that he looked the part, he could feel his chest heaving, something akin to dull rage pumping through his veins. He prayed the tremor in his hand didn’t betray his hesitation. “I said  _ move _ .”

Obeying his orders, Campbell stepped back, never taking his eyes off of the strange man. Agony flashed across his face where he laid in the dirt.In his hands, he held a silver blade. Wings looked from Campbell to Dean, expression visibly softening.

“Give me your coat.” Dean didn’t have much time, glancing at Wings, he saw that a red gleam of blood was starting to trickle from the corner of his mouth and his eyes moved frantically. He slid down the slope and went to take off his jacket and remembered his was only in his boxers. “ _ NOW _ .” 

Campbell shirked it off and threw it at Dean, staying exactly where he was. Moving quickly, Dean pressed the thick fabric to the wound, moving his other hand to the back side to see where the bullet went. There was no opening there, and he was thankful that Wings was naked. He could skip the sometimes detrimental process of removing his clothes to assess the wound better.

He tied the jacket around him and slid one arm under his legs and the other across his shoulder blades, lifting him up carefully. Dean had to get him back to his house immediately, before Wings lost too much blood.

One last time, he regarded Campbell. He felt the sneer tug his lip up, his voice like acid trying to eat through the other man’s bones until he was nothing. “Get the fuck off my property. And don’t tell anyone about this. He’ll be fine, not that you care. But you won’t be if I see you here again, or if I hear about this from anyone. Do I make myself clear?” 

Samuel’s eyes darkened clearly at war with Dean’s threat, but his skin was taking on a pallor akin to lethal blood loss. He nodded curtly, acknowledging the agreement, at least for the moment. 

Reasonably satisfied that Campbell wouldn’t shoot them in the back, Dean turned and left, the body draped over his shoulder too warm.Dean’s hand wrapped around, hand feathering over his taut side, avoiding the wound. He could feel his fingers wet with blood. 

Wings was whispering something feverishly, though Dean couldn’t catch a word of it, his eyes glazed over with pain, searching the sky for something with a fervor of a religious man with hell hounds on his heels. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dean murmured, straining to carry the both of them the distance to the cabin. “I’ve got you.” 

Wing’s head lolled to the side, and his body went slack. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Dean couldn’t afford to cry now. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get them inside safely. He swallowed the terror. He ducked and wove through the undergrowth, fearing that the drooping wings would catch on a branch or boulder. 

The time it took until he could lay Wings down on his dining room table felt like hell had manifested on Earth, keenly able to feel life slipping away in his arms.

Once Dean managed to put Wings on the table without his head smacking the wood, he tore the kitchen apart for salt and a bowl of water and some clean washcloths, and sprinted to the bathroom, yanking the drawers out and emptying their contents onto the counter and sink until his eyes landed on the tweezers and isopropyl alcohol.

It wasn’t a perfect med kit, but there was no other choice. It had to do. 

Dean approached the table cautiously, worried that too much movement would set him off. The dark wingspan spread out almost three feet on either side of the table and Dean swallowed a stone.

He had no idea what to do next, not really. The closest experience he’d had to being a doctor had been treating John’s stab wound when he was thirteen and John had come home more beaten than usual. 

He stared helplessly down at Wings. 

“He...help.” Wings voice was like a ghost’s, he barely heard it, and he was standing right next to him. He looked up at the cobwebbed chandelier lighting like it was something holy and mesmerizing and Dean realized he was losing him. 

“Shhh… it’s okay.” His forehead was sticky with sweat and drying blood, and Dean pushed some of the unruly black wisps from his eyes, humming low. “I’m gonna help you.” 

Wings hand shook, following the edge of the table, feverishly searching for something to hold onto. Tentatively, Dean slid his fingers between his, feeling his calloused palm against his own. “Wings. Wings, you gotta listen to me. Wings,  _ please _ . You have to lay still.”

He had no idea if the man understood a single word he was saying, but it seemed to do the trick. Over the span of a terrible minute, his breathing slowed down, and his grip on Dean’s hand went from frail to almost bone crushingly alive. 

Wings’ blue eyes were on him, flickering a little in the low light. Dean waited, untrained, unable and unwilling to play operation on him while he was still conscious, eyes desperate to look at anything but the daunting task before him. 

Eventually, he passed out, his painful grimace replaced by a soft one, and Dean began to remove the shrapnel bullet, praying to anyone who was listening that it had not shredded his insides beyond repair. 

**▵▿▵**

At some point in the night, Dean had gotten up to draw the curtains and lock the door, willing to sacrifice only a moment to seal them away from the rest of the world. 

Now, sunlight pierced through the cracks, illuminating them both in thin lines of white light. He watched Wings toss and turn, his face gnarling into pain each time he moved.

What if Dean had fucked it up? What if the next breath he drew was his last? His mind raced, punishing him for every moment’s hesitation that could very well lead to his death. 

Dean caught himself following Wings jawline, examining the stark contours of his face like he would never see them again. Please, just please make it out alive.

“Don’t die on me, Wings.” The words slipped out subconsciously. “Please, God, don’t die on me.”

Dean had the decency to cover him up with the quilt. The two’s hands were still tightly entwined long after the heartbeat in Wing’s wrist lulled Dean into sleep, tumbling heart over head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Still going for the weekly update, so look forward to more next wednesday.  
> As per usual, I have made it angsty. (I am unwell) I PINKY PROMISE that the next chapter will be fluffy hurt/comfort. Well at least I promise to try.  
> god bles. 
> 
> Comments + kudos so very much appreciated. They feed the motivation machine. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after— not for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay (and the shorter chapter). I hope it was still worth the wait!

As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after— not for the first time. 

In fact, there were several times before this. There was before the fire, before the loss of his mother, before John started hunting, before Jess died, before Sammy went to rehab, before Dean picked up that knife. 

Before before before. 

The question has hung in front of him for quite some time now.

What happens after? 

What happens to him, when all is said and done?

  
  
  


The bed is warm and soft and he sinks into it. A hand presses against his chest, pins him down and muscle memory tells him to go for the knife, fingers flexing outward and then curling in, his nails catching on the sheet. 

This is safe. 

Here in this moment, no one can touch him. The tiny flowers on the sheets molt before his eyes, little petals rising out of the fabric and blooming. They're feather light against his bare skin, and the weight of his body is crushing them. He makes a noise of upset, and a hand comes down to press a finger to his mouth, hushing him gently. 

_ <It's okay.> _

Slowly, he wakes. The warmth from the finger still lingers against his lips, but the bed is hard where his face presses against it, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes open just a crack. The wood of the table greets him, and the sunlight is just now poking through the blinds once again, casting the same lines across the pine knots, along the curves of his outstretched forearm and across where his head faces towards the sun. 

"It's okay." He murmurs, and for an incredibly brief moment he is perplexed by why the words slip from between his lips, until one of his knuckles grazes bare skin. 

His evening comes back. 

Before. 

Before Wings. 

Slowly, Dean sits upright, suddenly entirely aware of the being lying on his table, and his heart beats in his mouth and his fingers catch on something, pulling him even further from the comfort and haze of his dream. He ducks his head in, looking down at where his hand is stuck. His fingers are still woven between Wings', his own a shade lighter.

Dean sits very still. 

He’s afraid to make a sound and wake him up, so he stays there for a moment, assessing the situation he’s willingly walked himself into.

The stranger’s chest rises and lowers every few seconds, almost imperceptibly so. The gauze is brown from oxidized blood, but it doesn't appear to have been soaked through in the night, proving Dean's improvised medic work satisfactory. The stitches held. 

_ Huh _ , Dean thinks. He should be thankful for the live or die experiences thrust upon him by his father's recklessness. 

Half the time, Dean's afraid he took pages out of John's book.

And that would be okay. Well, it wouldn’t— but he— he could cope with that. He could work through it. He’s beginning to understand that even as the world ended, it would still spin, and day would come and the night would consume and he’d be okay. 

It’s unspeakably comforting, the feeling of fingers tucked between his own, the way Dean’s calloused palm presses against another, like a bond is forming quietly between a man waking from his dream and another still ensnared. 

“It’s okay.” Dean says one more time, the words an impulse.

Wings stirs, his upper lip twitching a hairsbreadth, and Dean braces for the cry of pain that always comes with waking, even if it’s not aloud. Anticipating the event horizon of his world ending with Wings consciousness, Dean grabs a glass of water, and the bottle of alcohol, and a rag before coming to stand next to his head, his thighs pressed against the edge of the table. 

He stares down at him, and his head feels clearer than it did last night. The stranger’s hair is unruly, unkempt, and Dean can’t tell how long it’s been like that— how long this winged man has been living in the forest. The locks are nearly as dark as his wings, but the sunlight exposes their truthful deep brown color. It’s tangled here and there, and Dean has to try and restrain himself from carding his fingers through it to work out the knots. A residual caretaking instinct he has had yet no luck fighting.

When they were kids, Sammy always refused to brush his hair, and it was never really a problem when it was just him and Sam. But school begged a shred of presentability from the two, lest child services were called, so he kept up Sam’s appearance for him. Dean kept them fed, schooled, he took care of them both, though Sam always came first. 

_ Should  _ have always come first. 

Now Dean’s here with someone else’s blood under his fingernails, and there’s a hunter on the loose who probably has it out for them both. And he’s not even a  _ real  _ hunter. He's just some guy with a gun and a penchant for killing things.

Dean’s officially in over his head. 

Dark smudges look like they’ve been pressed underneath his eyes with two uncaring thumbs, and a distinct line of his cheekbones drags in a swoop across either side of his face. His lips are full but chapped and Dean wonders why he cares, but the urge to dab a spot of lotion against them nearly overpowers him. 

He’s trying hard to ignore the wings. 

There’s finding a human man and then there is finding a man with wings, real wings, with muscle and tendons and quivering feathers, and  _ yep there it is _ , that edge of panic. 

The word hangs over his head but Dean refuses to use it. His mother’s bedtime stories aren’t real.

Demons are. He knows that now, though they are few and far between. But the a-- no. 

Dean shakes his head.

There's never been  _ any _ proof. 

He rocks his weight from foot to foot, debating his best course of action. Minutes pass, but the man doesn’t stir again, so finally Dean sucks it up and takes his hand and pats it against his cheek, gently. His skin feels rough against the surprising softness, even the barest hint of stubble is nearly feather soft. 

He comes to sit on the edge of the table.

“Hey.” He murmurs, uselessly. “Wake up?”

_ Please wake up. _

Wings’ head moves, only slightly, pressing against his hand. Dean freezes like a deer in headlights, caught touching when he should have only been looking. Heat crawls up his cheeks and his stomach flips. 

_ “Fucking hell, Dean.” _ He mutters, pulling his hand away and he cocks his head, unsure if he really heard a quiet, sad noise leave the man still lying seemingly unconscious on his table. 

A warm, steady hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. Dean swallows his own quiet noise. It takes everything to look up again, scared of what he’s going to see.

When they lock eyes that fear melts. 

Wings flexing underneath his back, extending as far as they can go until the longest feathers graze the floor and the farthest tip brushes the wall near the dining table, the stranger looks up at him with clear eyes. His lips move rapidly, as he soundlessly repeats something over and over. One side of his face clenches up in pain as he tries to sit up.

Dust particles drift from the rafters like nothing is amiss, little bokehs proving that what Dean sees is real. He still doesn’t believe it. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he keeps his voice low, holding his breath and extending his hands, palms out, as a friendly act. “I’m not— I’m not gonna hurt you, just, you gotta let me get—” 

Before Dean’s fingers even lift the bandaging to inspect the damage, there’s a forearm against his throat, and he’s pinned against the table by strong arms and they form an iron cage to hold him there. Two strong legs straddle him. Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. 

“Wings—” 

The stranger barks something out, the syllables harsh and completely foreign, staring down at Dean with a combustion-prone concoction of fear, confusion and leftover adrenaline mixing behind the blue. 

“Please I—” 

The arm presses against his windpipe even harder, and Dean meets the icy stare. Wings tilts his head, and his eyes narrow, his lips hanging open slightly, like he wants to say something. 

“I’m trying to help you.” 

The pressure lessens a fraction, and Dean takes the opportunity to whip his arm up, hand sliding between him and Wings’ own, and he pushes him away and back a short inch, but it’s enough to throw the smaller man. Finally free, his throat drags in a breath but he doesn’t plan on giving wings another opening, so he brings his knee up from under the other man, using it as a brace to prevent him from overpowering him again. 

He says the first thing that flies through his pea-brain. “Who are you?” Lord help him, he may just be the stupidest man alive. “What do I call you?” Asking him to introduce himself seems like the dumbest possible direction for the scene playing out. 

With the quilt long gone, the stranger is fully indecent again, and Dean’s trying very hard to ignore it, because it’s the icing on the unreal cake. Fire creeps up his cheeks regardless and Dean squirms. 

A black arm brings itself up and around Wing’s body curling as though it was a protective stance. It reminds him of a knight with a shield. Everything else about his posture screams prey animal, and Dean can tell when the ghost of a fight is reverberating through someone’s muscle memory.

What the fuck did Campbell  _ do  _ to him? 

To top it all off, Dean realizes he did a terrible job of cleaning the blood away from his mouth. The blue takes over his eyes as his pupil’s become pinpricks of something primal and it doubles with the dried blood smeared down the hollow of his throat. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” Dean’s voice is low and shaking and he feels just like he did when he spent all those years helpless, just a child yanked around. “Stay with me. C’mon.” 

The wing lowers, and as it does so it catches the light, and the entire wing is made up of feathers that look just like the ones sitting on his mantle, an oil slick in sunshine. Without thinking, Dean brings his hand to his thigh and squeezes it, thumb digging into the meat of it. The touch is meant to be grounding, though he’s not sure who for.

“You know me.” He hums, in a futile effort to comfort him. 

A flip must switch in the stranger’s mind, because he nods suddenly, pulling his weight off of Dean and settling down on his own legs, his wings larger than life, spread out in the room.

“Dean.” He says, and it sounds reverent, his voice rough, the syllable catching in his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, but fresh scarlet blooms across the bandage. “ _ Dean _ .”

Dean stays as still as a statue and he can’t recall ever saying his name, though that’s usually how it goes for most anything. Words pour out of his mouth ceaselessly, and he’s always embarrassing himself, dumping his scattered thoughts on poor unsuspecting souls: hey, did you know that Led Zeppelin were tolkien fans? Simply because he’d seen someone had walked past wearing a Tree of Gondor shirt. 

But Dean doesn’t remember saying his own name. His fathers harsh words rattle around inside his mind: kill first, figure out what it is later.

This thought has to wait, though, because the bullet wound seems to have caught up to him, and Wings slumps forward, his entire body going limp in Dean’s arms, his wings thumping down against the table. Dean drags his hands up his back, until his fingers are buried in the downy feathers that molt into his shoulder blades. Dean can’t be certain, but he feels warmer than last night, like he’d been sleeping next to a fire. 

Fuck, fuck  _ fuck _ .

Dean has no idea how to treat an infection, not really. He can try and prevent one from happening, sure— he’s done that what feels like hundreds of times. But if the infection takes hold it’s out of his hands and he’s going to be left with a dead winged man on his table, or a  _ possibly _ alive winged man forced into the spotlight. 

Dean presses his fist to his mouth, and his body feels like a bow-string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. There’s no one who can help, and there’s no one he trusts.

  
  


Dean sits there for nearly thirty minutes, ignoring where his friend’s blood has stained his shirt. The cabin smells like iron, and like feathers, which he hadn’t realized was a distinct scent until it filled up the room. His phone sits in his hands. 

The texture of the rug on the floor blurs with the sound of the ragged breathing next to him. 

His phone rings.

His fingertips burn where they touched his warm, soon to be cold thigh.

It rings again.

“Hey.” Dean expects Sam’s voice on the other end, and blinks, confused when he’s greeted with a familiar short drawl that he can’t immediately place. 

“Missouri says he’s gonna be fine, kid.”

The voice belongs to Pamela. 

“Who?” Dean stands up abruptly. Is she outside?

“Your birdman.”

Dean doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Who?”

Once again, Dean is privy to a conversation happening away from the phone. It sounds like another woman talking, and she sounds annoyed. 

“Oh. Missouri. The ol’ wife.”

“Wife?” He runs a quick calculation in his head and then raises his eyebrows. That tracks. 

“Dean Winchester, are you listening to me.”

__ _ Uh, no?  _

“Yeah, yeah okay. I heard you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Whatever she thinks she knows, she better not.

Something that sounds, in a honey sweet and dainty voice, like ‘Give it here’ comes from the other end and then she’s speaking to him directly. 

“Dean Winchester?” She asks.

“Speaking.”

“Mmkay, good. You better listen up, sweetheart because he’s gonna be fine, but I’m still sending Pam your way. She was a nurse before she retired early, so whatever is wrong with the wound, she should be able to help.”

For once, Dean is rendered speechless, and utterly, utterly  _ confused _ . 

“You still there?”

“Yeah.” Dean croaks. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He looks over at where Wings is laying. His skin should look sunkissed, but instead beads of sweat form along his tendons, and they’re pulled tight, his body tense even if he’s out cold. “How do you know about him?”

“Pamela and I… we share some unique gifts. But that shouldn’t concern you right now. You’ve got a fallen angel dying in your living room. She’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, alright?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Go dig up some of Rufus’ old stash. The good stuff.”

“Why?” He feels deeply out of the loop. 

“To calm your nerves. I can feel them from here. Alright now, I’m gonna hang up. Sit tight until she gets there.” 

  
  


**▵▿▵**

Knuckles rap against the door, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. From the time it took him to hang up to Pamela showing up at his door it had started to rain again. This time the storm was black, and he had a feeling there would be no sunset, just the dimming of the sky until the charcoal was pitch. He flips the porchlight on as he opens the door. 

Pamela’s black hair is caught under the strap of an army green duffel bag, and the rain drips down her forehead and off her chin, smearing her smokey eye shadow slightly. Standing next to her is a woman Dean hasn’t met yet. She stands tall, and if there is a height difference between her and Pamela, he can’t tell. Her ringlets are just as soaked as her wife's and her dark eyes catch the yellow of the porch light. Inexplicably, they're warm, and Dean lends himself to trusting them. 

“The psychic forgot her umbrella, huh?” Dean asks, stepping aside to let them in. 

  
  


Missouri makes a face. 

  
  


“I was gonna say you’re the prettiest thing in these hills but…” Whatever she was going to say, dies as she takes in the sight strewn across the dining table. 

Pamela sets her duffle bag down in one of the seats pulled away from the table and then her arm goes limp as she stands there. Missouri stops by her side, the fingers of her hand trailing her arm until it rests stationary by Pamela’s, their pinkies intertwining. 

“Seeing and believing are truly two different things.” Missouri sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, and, actually, he gets that. “Earlier, on the phone you called him a…” 

“An angel.”

There are a million questions he could ask but he settles on one. “How do you know?”

Pamela tears her gaze away for just a moment, to look over her shoulder at Dean. “That’s a long story for another night. Right now, we have an angel to save. You look terrible, by the way.” 

“Mmhm. Dead on your feet. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. We’ll take care of your angel.”

“Have you eaten anything since you found him?” Pam asks. The duffle bag zipper slices through the ambient silence between words, and she rifles through it for a solid minute before she finally produces a pair of tweezers and what looks to be military grade cotton balls with a pleased grin. 

  
  


His stomach makes a pathetic noise in response, however instead of making a move to eat something, he's standing there staring validly, wondering why these two women who live in the middle of nowhere are completely calm about Mr. Comatose being heaven sent.

It’s fairly obvious from the way their backs are turned to him now, heads leaning in close until they're almost touching so they can whisper in confidence, that he isn’t going to get any answers tonight. 

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave, breezing through his muscles, seeping straight into his bones and burrowing in his marrow. Pamela seems to have some left over hospital grade drugs in her nursing kit, and his new friend is completely subdued under the quiet blanket of sleep. 

“Dean.” He tears his gaze away from the middle distance, where it had gotten comfortable to see Pamela watching him, her eyes narrow with concern. “I don’t want to have to take care of you next. Eat something and get some rest. You’ve done enough. We’ll be out of your hair once we’re done.”

Dean shouldn’t trust them. But he does. He doesn’t have any other choice. Shuffling around, he shows Missouri the outlets, where Rufus’s first aid-kit (nearly an end-of-days cold war quantity) stash is shoved into the top three shelves of one of the three storage closets. Missouri promises to lock up and leave the key under the worn-through doormat, and Dean nods sleepily. 

Missouri pats his cheek, and for the briefest of moments, Dean misses home. He misses Sammy. His life had never been simple or easy or even nice, but at least it had been predictable. 

“He’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

**▵▿▵**

  
  


When he wakes, he’s in his bed and sleep-drunk, and there’s an empty space to his side, a starless void that he’d never been able to fill. In his living room lies the moon, and the stars, and the hopeful sliver of himself wonders if even the sun can be found there as well. The cabin is peaceful, a comforting fog of quiet wrapping him up. Sleep drags him under again, and he goes willingly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plan is to update on Wednesday with the fourth chapter to get back on schedule, work permitting!  
> Thanks for reading, hope it was at least a little bit fluffy since that's what I initially promised. (PS. if you see any errors, please let me know. i'm not very good at finding them.)

**Author's Note:**

> Just listen to the entirety of Orville Peck's Pony and Lord Huron's Strange Trails and you'll understand what vibes I'm working with. 
> 
> Comments/kudos very very much appreciated and cherished for a life time. <3 <3


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